"Who?" Pippa asks, bending to pick acorns.
"My mother."
Ann gapes. Pippa's head pops up. "But isn't she"
Felicity interrupts. "Pippa, help me gather some goldenrod to bring to Mrs. Nightwing. That should put her in a happy mood tonight."
Dutifully, Pippa follows Felicity on her mission and soon we're all looking for the September blooms. Down by the lake, I see Kartik leaning against the boathouse, arms crossed, watching me. His black cloak flutters in the wind. I wonder if he knows about his brother's fate. For a moment, I feel a bit sorry for him. But then I remember the threats and taunts, the smirking way he tried to order me about, and all my sympathy vanishes. I stand tall and defiant, staring straight back at him.
Pippa wanders over. "Good heavens, isn't that the Gypsy who saw me in the woods?"
"I don't recall," I lie.
"I hope he doesn't try to blackmail us."
"I doubt it," I say, trying to feign lack of interest. "Oh, looka dandelion."
"He is rather handsome, isn't he?"
"Do you think so?" It's out of my mouth before I can stop it.
"For a heathen, that is." She tosses her head in a coy fashion. "He seems to be looking at me."
It hadn't occurred to me that Kartik could be watching Pippa and not me, and for some reason, this bothers me. As infuriating as he is, I want him to be gazing only at me.
"What are you looking at?" Ann asks. Her hands are full of drooping yellow weeds.
"That boy over there. The one who saw me in my chemise the other night."
Ann squints. "Oh. Him. Isn't he the one you kissed, Gemma?"
"You didn't!" Pippa gasps in horror.
"She did," Ann says, matter-of-factly. "But only to save us from the Gypsies."
"You were with the Gypsies? When? Why didn't you take me?"
"It's a rather long story. I'll tell you on the way back," Felicity chides. Pippa is squawking about the way we've kept vital information from her, but Felicity's eyes are on Kartik and then me with an understanding that makes me feel suddenly like running for cover. And then she has her arm around Pippa's shoulders, telling her the story of our adventures in the Gypsy camp in a way that completely exonerates me. I am a noble, self-sacrificing girl who endured his kiss only to save us. It is so convincing that I almost believe her myself.
When we step through that door of light again, the garden realm is there to welcome us with its sweet smells and a bright sky. I'm apprehensive. I don't know how much time I shall have with my mother, and a small part of me doesn't want to share that time with my friends. But they are my friends, and perhaps it will comfort my mother to meet them.
"Follow me," I say, taking them into the grotto. She's nowhere to be seen. There are only the trees and, farther on, the circle of strange crystals.
"Where is she?" Ann asks. "Mother?" I call out. No answer. Nothing but the chirping of birds. What if she's not really here? What if I did imagine it?
My friends avoid my eyes. Pippa whispers something low in Felicity's ear.
"Maybe you dreamed it?" Felicity suggests softly.
"She was here! I spoke with her!"
"Well, she isn't here now," Ann comments.
"Come with us," Pippa says, treating me like a child. "We'll have a jolly time. I promise."
"No!"
"Looking for me?" Mother strides into view in her blue silk dress. She's as lovely as ever. My friends are struck dumb by her presence.
"Felicity, Pippa, Ann may I present Virginia Doyle, my mother."
The girls mumble their polite how-do-you'do's.
"I am so very pleased to meet you," Mother says. "What beautiful girls you all are." This has the desired effect. They blush, completely charmed. "Will you take a stroll with me?" Soon she has them regaling her with stories of Spence and themselves, the three of them competing for her attention, and I'm a bit grumpy, wanting to have my mother only to myself. But then Mother gives me a wink and takes my hand, and I'm happy again.
"Shall we sit?" Mother gestures to a blanket woven of fine silver thread, stretched out on the grass. For something so light, it is surprisingly strong and comfortable. Felicity runs her hand over the delicate threads. They give off the most striking tones.
"Dear me," she says, delighted. "Can you hear that? Pippa, you try."
We all do. It's as if we're conducting a symphony of harps through our fingers, and it sets us to laughing.
